


When Trouble Comes Knocking

by rowofstars



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Detective Noir, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:53:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Nine was a crack private investigator and Rose was a devastating femme fatale? Written for the noir challenge at <a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://then-theres-us.livejournal.com/">then_theres_us</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Trouble Comes Knocking

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the best beta and braintwin a girl ever had, [](http://stillxmyxheart.livejournal.com/profile)[stillxmyxheart](http://stillxmyxheart.livejournal.com/). Recognizable dialogue shamelessly borrowed from Doctor Who and the movie To Have And Have Not. Prompt picture is behind the cut.

The bar is moody and dark.

The brick building it lives in was at one time a vibrant red crisscrossed with white mortar and sitting very stately on the corner across from a tailor. That had been back when this side of town was the right side, though it is now very much what decent law abiding citizens refer to as _wrong_. One might say it possesses not even a hint of respectability, which makes it more than serviceable for John Smith’s needs: drink and information.

There is a low haze of smoke clinging to the room and the clientele, and he blinks against the burn in his eyes as he moves from the door to sit at the end of the bar.

The bartender is a young man named Rickey, or Mickey, or maybe Nicky; he’s not sure nor does he really care. He’s here to see Pete, the man in the corner booth, who, for a negotiated sum, will pass along the most useful bits of information.

John leans forward onto the bar top, sticky with spilled whiskey and excessive varnish, and motions to the bartender who returns his raised hand with a curt nod. A few moments later a glass appears in front of him and he slides a few bills forward.

He takes a long sip and then sets the glass down hard. “Is he here, Rickey?”

The young man frowns. “It’s Mickey. And yeah, he’s over there,” Mickey answers, pointing to a table just to the left of the stage. “Show’s about to start though, mate.”

“I won’t be long.”

Pete was not the type to gossip; he did not trade in rumors or idle chatter. He was a man who knew things, cold hard fact things, and if someone wanted to pay him to know those things too, well who was he to object. The banking circles he worked in were perfectly legitimate, but criminals had to keep their money somewhere.

“So, have you seen him?” John asks. Pete gives him a tired look and John pulls a roll of cash from his inside jacket, holding it just out of reach.

“Seen who?” Pete replies, stretching for the money.

John pulls it away and closes his fist around it before Pete can touch it. “You know there’s more where this came from, Pete,” he says, lowering his voice. “Have you. Seen him?”

Pete sighs and frowns. “Smith, he’s not here and he hasn’t been in all week.”

John scowls and opens his hand, allowing Pete to finally swipe the cash and shove it in his pocket.

“But I know where he’s supposed to be tonight,” Pete whispers, resting on an elbow and leaning closer.

He raises an eyebrow at the man’s assertion. “Oh, do you?”

Pete smirks and nods slightly. “I do indeed, _Doctor_.”

Frowning at the epithet, John takes a small sip of his drink and then sets the glass on a napkin. “Where?”

Pete retrieves a folded piece of paper and slides it across the table. He opens his mouth to explain but his eyes go wide and he seems to be staring at something near the door.

John follows Pete’s line of sight, twisting in the chair until he can see the door. The din of the room dulls and the sharp click of her heels can be heard easily as she strides across the space. The sway of her hips makes the skirt of her blue dress swish around her legs, fluttering under the edge of her coat just enough to treat the patrons to flashes of knee. As she moves, she unties the belt holding her coat closed and slips it off her shoulders, revealing an expanse of fair skin over a modestly dipped neckline.

A long strand of pearls, knotted in the middle, dangles tauntingly from her slender neck and John catches himself licking his lips.

She sidles up to the middle of the bar, the patrons spreading around her like the Red Sea, and orders a martini. Her coat lays draped over a stool as she stands and takes an experimental sip, humming in approval and smiling as she sets the slim stemmed glass down with a light clink. Mickey nods and the room collectively turns back to what it was doing as if nothing happened.

John picks up his drink and takes a long swallow, then tucks the scrap of paper in his jacket pocket. _Jeopardy friendly without a doubt_ , he thinks.

He makes his way back to the shadowed end of the bar before the band starts to play. He’s on his third glass of scotch when a delicate hand rests on his forearm.

“So, you’re the man they call – the Doctor?” she asks, her fingers walking down his sleeve to skim over the curve of his hand. “The one who solves people’s problems?”

His eyes shift from her fingers to follow the slow deliberate movement of her lips as she speaks, then the lowering of her lashes over those sparkling eyes and he swallows. “Nope.”

She grins slightly at the way he pops the ‘p’ and turns back to his drink as if he doesn’t care to hear what else she has to say. “Well, that’s too bad because I have a problem that needs solving. If you see this _Doctor_ , send him my way.”

With that she starts to walk away, tossing a wide smile and a quick ‘ciao’ over her shoulder. He’s ready to let her but her tongue is tucked against the edge of her teeth in an all too disarming way, and she’s piqued his curiosity.

Against all of his better judgment he pivots on the stool and calls out to her, “Aren’t you going to tell me what your problem is?”

She stops and turns carefully, tilting her head to the side and studying him for a moment. “I thought you weren’t the Doctor?”

His lips quirk briefly and he leans back against the bar, stretching his elbow out along the wooden edge. “Let’s say I’m his – gate keeper. If I like what I hear I’ll pass it along.”

Her lips purse and her brow creases, but she saunters back to the bar and perches on the stool next to him, crossing one black stocking’d leg over the other. His eyes stray over the slope of her calf momentarily before darting back to her face. She’s young, he notices, too young for him to be ogling, or to be in a place like this. Her long blonde hair is gathered to the side, spilling over her shoulder in an elegant wave and he notices two horizontal red marks along her neck, almost entirely concealed by her hair. He scowls inwardly at the notion they might be from a man’s hand.

“So what’s your name?”

He contemplates a lie, but something about her is drawing him in, making him want to trust her. He doesn’t, though. “John Smith.”

“Do you know the man they call Captain Jack?” she asks, and from the narrowing of his eyes and the slight downturn of his mouth she knows the answer.

He’s older than she thought he would be and there is a weariness in his gaze as if he has already seen too much of the world. She wonders if he fought in the war, if that is what gave him this melancholy mantle, or if it’s always been.

“And if I do?” He turns back to the bar and picks up his drink, finishing it in one large gulp.

“Then you know what I’m looking for,” she replies.

With that she slides one sinful leg over the other and hops off the bar stool. She slips her coat back on and takes a moment to smile and wave at Mickey, who gives her a crooked half grin and a wink.

Turning to leave, she takes a step and then stops, looking back over her shoulder at him, flipping her blonde hair. “Until we meet again, John Smith.”

John frowns. “But I didn’t get your name.”

She grins and it’s wide and toothy, almost feral. Her eyes shine in the low light, flecked with gold. “No, you didn’t.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jack Harkness, or Captain Jack as he was known to some, though no one could find any evidence he had ever been in the military, was a confidence man. He made a living convincing others that what he wanted them to do was what they had wanted to do all long. They believed in him so much that some of them thanked him even as he was swindling them out of their last dime. But they had all been swindlers themselves, fellow con men and criminals who didn’t deserve their ill-gotten gains.

He never went after respectable men, or any women, no matter what their crimes. He felt it was in poor taste to take advantage of the fairer sex for money when he’d much rather take advantage of the other riches they possessed, usually after they were showered in praise and gifts, all at the expense of their shady husbands and boyfriends.

Lately though, he’d been doing the convincing on behalf of a man named Harold Saxon. Saxon was rumored to be into all manners of maliciousness, from a sloppy but still unsolved bank heist a year ago which left two security guards dead and two widows at home, to the more recent rumblings of bribery and corruption already rampant in the city. They said he controlled a third of the police department and at least four judges. They said he could even get to the mayor.

He had been nicknamed the Master.

The address Pete gave him lead to a warehouse on the south side along the docks. A fog had rolled in, laying thick in the narrow alleyways between buildings and muting the rhythmic dinging of the buoys in the harbor. The night sky, obscured by clouds, had been threatening rain all day but was only just beginning to drip.  
John tugs the collar of his coat higher and crouches low behind a large oil drum. From this distance he can just make out each of the players as they exit their cars and file into the side door of the warehouse. He counts nine in all, the Master and Captain Jack among them, but his breath catches when Saxon reaches out a hand to help a slim blonde to her feet.

He can see the shock of blue fabric under the edge of her coat, pressed against her knees by the wind and streaming out behind her. She smiles at Saxon, but John can tell it’s not the wide bright one she flashed earlier in the bar. Saxon leans in, presumably for a kiss, but she turns her head to the side causing him to grab a handful of her hair where it is tucked over her shoulder. She cries out as Saxon twists his hand and pulls her to him.

It takes all of John’s resolve to stay put and watch.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The news comes three days later.

The vault is left empty, save for the body of an off duty policeman turned security guard and a small stack of savings bonds. The usual suspects are rounded up and questioned. No one saw anything. No one knows anything.

Four days later Detective Inspector Bishop pays a visit to John Smith.

“Forgive me, Detective Inspector,” he starts, pouring scotch into the two glasses on his blotter, “but you don’t seem to being doing much – detective inspecting.”

Bishop sighs and picks up the glass nearest to him. “My hands are tied, Doc, you know that. Saxon’s got the commissioner in his corner now.”

John makes a disgruntled noise and sips from his glass. “Sounds like you have quite the problem.”

The detective smiles and adjusts his wrinkled grey jacket. “That’s why I’m here.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

John is standing on a street corner at two in the morning, hands shoved in his pockets as he waits for a taxi to wander by. He hears the sound of footsteps and tenses, fists clenched and ready for a fight.

“Are you following me?” a voice asks from behind him.

He turns, frowning, and sees her striding confidently towards him, sly smile on her face. She’s wearing black this time, and her hair is loose and falling around her face, little wisps blowing in the light breeze and sticking to her red lips.

He chuckles. “I was here first, seems more like it’s you who’s following me.”

Her smile widens and her eyes shine in the soft glow of the street lamp. “Fair point.”

He’s about to ask what she’s doing out and about at this time of night, and maybe a question or two about what in the bloody hell she thinks she’s doing getting mixed up with men like Harold Saxon and Jack Harkness, but at that precise moment a taxi pulls alongside them. Without hesitation, she steps off the curb and opens the door, slipping inside the vehicle before he has a chance to object or suggest maybe they share the ride.

“Good night, John Smith,” she says through the open window, and then the taxi pulls away.

He shakes his head and stares after the cab, watching it until its red taillights disappear.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t know her name, but he knows it would look stunning in lights, that she would look stunning in lights. Well, he’s pretty sure she’d look stunning in anything, or better yet nothing, but that’s a thought he doesn’t pursue.

John lifts another photograph and sighs as his eyes are immediately drawn to the right side where she stands in another long coat. It was yellow, he remembers, a sunny yellow, standing out amongst the sea of black and grey, bright even in the dim light and late afternoon rain. In some photos she’s looking away and he can see the way the wind moves her hair. In others she’s facing him but not looking at him, and he’s certain she hadn’t seen him parked across the street between an off duty taxi and a delivery truck.

There is one picture though that makes his stomach turn. Her arm linked with Saxon’s as they enter the theater, and on the other side, the smiling police commissioner. John flips through a few more photos and when he reaches the last one he stands abruptly, shoving his chair backwards so fast it scrapes and squeaks over the worn wood floor. He leans over the desk and stares down at her face, grinning and looking over her shoulder.

She’s looking straight at him and his camera.

He stalks out of his office into the front room, photo in hand. A red headed woman looks up from a half dismantled typewriter, her hands held out to either side of her body, fingers stained with black ink.

“And just where are you going?” she demands.

John snatches his coat and hat from the stand by the door and stops just long enough to put them on.

“Out, Donna,” he replies. His voice is harsh and frustrated, angry at the thought that he’s being played, that she might be in this up to her gorgeous eyeballs.

She frowns at him, hands on her hips. “Then could you get some more type ribbon and paper clips and–”

He yanks the door open and stomps into the narrow hallway, slamming the door shut on Donna’s list.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The place is nearly empty, but somehow just as noisy and smoky.

John marches up to the bar, hand on the money in his pocket, ready to forgo the usual pleasantries for the sake of expediency. He leans on the bar and the bartender comes over, lowball glass in hand.

“Where’s Pete?” John asks. He looks left and right and then eyes the man in front of him. “I asked you a question, Rickey.”

The man gives a short laugh and then sets the glass down hard. “Pete’s busy. And it’s _Mickey_.”

John puts on a fake smile. “Well, Nicky, I need Pete, so be a good lad and go get him.”

Mickey frowns. “I told you Pete’s busy.” He pulls out a bottle from behind the bar, drops two ice cubes into the glass and pours John drink.

“I haven’t got time for a drink and a chat. Tell Pete he’s not too busy to talk to me.”

Mickey starts to object again, but Pete steps out from the back room and motions to John.

“You’re not usually here on Thursdays,” Pete says, leaning in the doorway.

John’s face is stern as he reaches into the pocket of his overcoat and pulls out a photograph. He holds it up in front of Pete’s face and says, “I need a name.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The police tape stretches across the small side street, tied to two lampposts, but John doesn’t need to get any closer to see who the body belongs to. The well-worn cheap shoes and wrinkled grey suit tell him all he needs to know.

He sighs and looks down at the note, written in Donna’s familiar loops, and then at the numbers on the street sign. This was the address Bishop left for him, but he has no way of knowing now what the detective was going to tell him. He crinkles the paper in his palm and shoves it back in his pocket.

All he has to go on now is her name. _Rose._

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s Tuesday and it’s late. He should be home sleeping, if home wasn’t a rundown flat on the fourth floor of an even more rundown building. But he can’t go home and he can’t sleep. The streets are nervous, the city is on edge and he doesn’t know how to make sense of any of this in a way that would prove anything.

All he has are theories and no one to tell them to. Well, there’s Donna, but she doesn’t care much for his rambling trains of thought and the way his brain starts again before it’s really stopped.

John shuffles through the file one more time and then slumps back in his chair in frustration.

There’s a knock on the door and he waits until he hears Donna’s voice interrogating the visitor before standing and moving into the outer office.

Donna looks back to see him coming out and says, “I was just about to tell Blondie here that she has to make an appointment –”

“It’s fine.” He shakes his head, laughs humorlessly and then directs his attention to the figure standing in front of Donna’s desk. “What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

Rose gives him an odd look and then walks right past Donna and into his office. “What are _you_ doing with a door that says Doctor Ferguson, MD on it?”

“Because he’s too bloody cheap to pay for it to be painted over,” Donna shouts.

John closes the door and eyes Rose as he moves to sit behind his desk. She remains standing, casually pulling off her gloves and slipping off her coat. She lays them over the back of the chair and wanders around the room as she talks.

“So is that how you got the name, then? Is that why they call you the Doctor?” She pauses and flashes him a bemused smile. “Because you’re too cheap to have a new name put on your front door?”

He frowns but doesn’t answer, studying her as she paces. Her dress is red this time, cut in a deep V in the front, and her hair is pulled up on the sides, falling down her back and shoulders in large curls. It might be his favorite outfit yet.

“What are you doing here?” he asks finally.

Rose stops and tilts her head, then walks over to the corner of his desk, carefully placing one shiny red heel in front of the other. She leans against the desk, hip resting against the edge, and braces a hand on the top.

“I can help you get him.”

John pushes his chair back and folds his arms over his chest. “Who?”

“Saxon,” she replies quickly. “The Master and his whole bloody gang.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And why would you do that?”

“Because he’s evil. And it’s the right thing to do.”

He can see the muscles of her hand tense over the papers on his desk. “He’s your man –”

“He is _not_ my man,” she snaps, leaning over him. One hand is resting on the arm of his chair the other is stabbing a finger at his chest.

Her eyes are dark, flashing and furious, and her lips are far too red and tempting to be this close to him. He still doesn’t know what her motivation is but the anger in her voice when he implied that she involved with Saxon is undeniable. She may not be on the wrong side, but she still seems far from innocent.

“Noted,” John says with a smirk. “How do you presume to deliver them?”

She straightens and then sits on the desk, crossing her legs and giving him a perfect view of her right thigh. “Jack,” is all she answers.

“What about him?” John’s brow furrows at the name. He still doesn’t know what piece the Captain is in her game, knight or pawn.

She leans back, hands braced behind her on the desk, stretching the silky material of her dress over her chest, and John finds himself instinctively leaning forward.

“He has something of mine,” she explains. “Something he stole from me that I’d like back.”

“And what’s that?”

She sits up then and leans towards him. Her fingertips trace the edge of his jaw and her thumb brushes over his bottom lip. He swallows hard.

“You know that new club Jack owns? The one with all the dancing girls?” John nods numbly. “In the back room is a safe, and in that safe is a blue box.”

She runs her hand over his short cropped hair, nails grazing his ear on her way down the side of his face and his jaw clenches. Then she inches closer, so close he can feel her warm breath on his lips. His eyes catch hers and there’s that shimmer again, like the dancing flame of a candle. “Get it for me.”

With that Rose straightens and hops off the desk. Then she strides around the side and picks up her coat, starting to put it on.

John blinks and then mentally kicks himself for letting her get to him. “Why?” he asks, hating that his voice sounds so strained.

She smiles and the way her tongue catches on her teeth makes his heart race. “Get me the box and I’ll get you in that warehouse you like to watch so much.”

He follows the sway of her hips all the way out the door.

When Donna comes in, arms crossed over her chest, he finally snaps out of it. She shakes her head at him and he frowns. “What?”

“So, that was her?”

He sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Yeah, every inch of her.”

“Trouble,” she says, smirking. He frowns again and Donna turns to leave, muttering as she walks towards the door, “Every inch of her.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a surprisingly warm and clear night when he makes his way to the bar to meet Rose. He ducks into the alley and enters through the side door into a back hallway where Pete keeps an office. She’s already there waiting for him, perched on the edge of the desk, swinging her feet back and forth impatiently.

“Did you get it?”

Her voice is shaky and her usually bright hazel eyes are red at the edges and tired. There’s a small cut on her forehead that makes him scowl. He reaches out a hand to brush her hair back and get a better look but she shrugs off his touch. “What happened?” he asks softly.

“ _Nothing_ ,” she replies hastily. “Do you have it or not?”

He sighs in exasperation. “Yes, I have it.”

“Give it here, then.”

“It’s not on me,” he says, shrugging.

She frowns. “What?”

He moves to a chair set in front of the desk and flops down into it. “Don’t think I stuttered.”

She huffs and stands, hands on her hips, and glares down at him. “Where is it?”

“Somewhere safe,” he answers. “Where it will remain until you hold up your end of the bargain.”

“Fine. Let’s go then.”

“No.” He stands and does his best to loom over her with his arms folded across his chest. “Tomorrow night. My office.”

“ _Tomorrow?_ ” she exclaims, and he holds up a finger to hush her. “Why tomorrow?”

“Because I’m tired, it’s been a long day and I’d like to go have a drink,” he replies.

Her mouth twists into a pout and she stalks past him, stopping at the door. “8 o’clock. Don’t be late.”

She slams the door behind her and he smiles.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s raining and windy and a quarter to eight when she comes running into his office, her face streaked with tears. He’s out of his seat and to her side in a flash, catching her by the arms and guiding her to sit in the chair. He kneels in front of her, brow knitted in concern as she tries to compose herself.

“He knows,” she says, sniffling into the sleeve of her overcoat. “He’ll be waiting for you with his men.”

Then she hastily unties the belt holding her coat closed and reaches inside, pulling out a small scrap of paper. John takes the paper and examines it, finding a crude diagram of a building.

“What’s this?”

“I drew it after the first time he took me to the warehouse,” Rose replies. Her coat is almost soaked through and she shivers, tucking her arms against her chest. “The west wall of the building is shared with the one next to it. There’s a d-door in the basement that links the two. It’s locked from the other side, but if you can get it open you – you can get into Harry’s warehouse.”

She points to different parts of the drawing as she talks and he can see the slight tremor in her hand, the nervous way she bites at her lip. He sighs and looks up at her, and despite the obvious signs of fear there is a determination in her eyes. For the first time he knows what side she’s on and how brave she’s being.

Her head drops to her chest and she presses her lips together to keep them from quivering. He catches her chin with his finger and lifts her face so he can look into her eyes.

“Did he hurt you?” he asks, bracing himself for the answer. She shakes her head and he exhales the breath he was holding. “Good. I know you’re scared, so you can stay with me, if you want?”

Her eyes go wide and she sits up straighter, smoothing her palms over her tweed skirt. “I don’t think that’s necessary, really I’m –”

“Rose,” he interrupts. “I only ask once.”

She eyes him for a second and then the corner of his mouth quirks. Her lips crack a slight smile and finally she nods in agreement. He pushes himself up and offers her a hand, pulling her to her feet. She looks up at him, hands resting over the buttons of his shirt, and notices for the first time how blue his eyes are. She looks away, down at her hands and his heart is beating so fast she can feel it on both sides of his chest, like there are two of them thrumming away beneath her palms.

When her eyes find his again they are dark and shining, and she is hit with the sudden impulse to kiss him. His lips are cool, parting just enough for her to catch his lip between hers, and she can taste the lingering flavor of a good single malt.

She pulls back a moment later and he stares down at her in shock. “What did you do that for?”

Rose toys with one of the buttons, flicking it with her nail as she licks her lips slowly. “I’ve been wondering if I’d like it.”

He swallows. “What’s the decision?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Her reply is coy, but she’s already lifting up on her toes to reach his mouth again, when he meets her halfway. Her mouth opens and his hand fists in her hair, still damp from the rain. His tongue, so warm compared to his lips, slides over hers, coaxing her into his mouth. She tugs at his shirt with one hand, gripping his shoulder with the other and arches against him. His hands move to her shoulders, peeling the sodden coat from her body and letting it fall to the floor with a soggy thump. Then he skims his fingers down to her sides to her waist, pulling at her blouse.

This time he breaks the kiss, leaning back and taking a deep breath before things can go too far. He lets go of the fabric bunched in his hands and tries to step away, but she holds him in place and pulls his head down until her lips are next to his ear.

“It’s even better when you help.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a sharp crack and a rushing sound and they both duck instinctively.

“They’re shooting at us!” she exclaims, stumbling as he pushes her forward, into the cramped basement space. His hands land on her hips, directing her around a corner and into a storage closet.

“Don’t you think I know that, Rose?” he snaps, looming over her small form in the dark space.

Reaching up, he tugs a string and they both squint at the sudden intrusion of light. He’s closer than she thought, the toes of his shoes nearly touching hers. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, one hand fidgeting nervously with the papers clutched to her chest as she tries to slow her pounding heart.

He turns back to the door, hand resting on the knob, ready to ease it open and have a peek, but another shot makes him take a hasty step back.

“Well?” she says, slapping at his arm, the black leather making a satisfying crack. “Shoot back!”

“No gun.” He shrugs. She blinks. “Don’t believe in ‘em.”

Her eyebrows lift and her mouth twists. Then she turns abruptly, looking frantically around the tiny room in which they now find themselves. “So useless,” she mutters.

He frowns. “Oi! I’m not useless. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”

Instantly she whirls on him. “Only because I’ve been saving your arse the whole way along!”

“Oh, really? Seems more like meddling to me,” he counters. “Maybe if you knew how to stay put instead of wandering off as soon as my back is turned, we wouldn’t end up in situations where anyone needs saving!”

They’re both breathing heavy and pressed into each other’s space, her hands on her hips, his fists clenched at his side. Both are poised to continue the argument when a noise from the other side of the door makes them freeze. A moment later there are voices and then footsteps moving down the hall away from the storage room.

“That was close,” Rose whispers.

John nods. “Too close.”

He turns back to the door, resting his hand on the knob while he listens for any sound. Hearing nothing, he tries to open the door but all it does is rattle in place.

“What’s wrong?” Rose asks.

“I don’t want to alarm you,” he begins, “but we’re, uh, locked in.”

Her eyes go wide, her mouth opens and in a flash he’s there in front of her, palm covering her lips. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “We don’t want them coming back. I’ll get us out of here.”

He lowers his hand slowly and she forces herself to remain calm. “How?” she hisses, crinkling the pages with the tensing of her fingers.

John looks around, scanning the random boxes and shelves for something to use. A second later his arm stretches out, finger pointing at a wooden box in the corner. “There! Hand me that.”

She bends down next to the box and sees it’s short and full of tools, one sticking up at an odd angle with a blue handle. She picks it up and gives him an incredulous look. “This?”

“Yes!” He beams and wiggles his fingers until she sets the tool in his hand.

“But it’s a _screwdriver_ ,” she says incredulously.

“Exactly,” he replies. “Just the thing!”

He manages to jimmy the lock with what he fondly refers to as a bit of ‘jiggery pokery.’ Rose just rolls her eyes and stands there with her arms crossed pensively, documents tucked under her arm. He eases the door open, peeking into the hallway and sees the men standing at the far end.

“They’re still there.” He lets the door close again and rests his head against it.

“And?”

He gives her a serious look and then breaks into a wide grin. “Run!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Somehow they make it back to the adjacent building and out their original entrance, losing Saxon’s men in the maze of basement corridors. John’s car is still parked a short distance away, but she doesn’t let herself breathe again until they’ve gone several blocks, headed in the direction of the nearest police station.

“Will the police even do anything?” she asks. “The _commissioner_ , John, he’s – I mean, Harry’s got him –” She sighs in frustration and touches her forehead to the cool glass of the window.

“Saxon doesn’t own the whole city,” he replies. “There are still enough good people to make this right.”

 _At least I hope so_ , he doesn’t say.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The bar is still moody and dark and still very much on the wrong side of town, though these days it’s a little less wrong than before.

John settles into a stool at the end of the bar and nods to Mickey, who arrives with what will be the first of many drinks. “So, Mickey, what’s new?”

“It’s Mic – oh – um, plenty’s new from what I hear now that you’ve gone and ruined the neighborhood.”

John smiles. “Fantastic!”

Mickey laughs and looks up as the volume of the room drops. The door swings shut and Rose strides across the bar, taking a seat next to John.

“I suppose I should say thank you,” she says. Mickey sets her usual martini down and she pauses long enough to take a sip. “But –”

“But you won’t,” John finishes.

She smiles and he smiles back, the silence comfortable between them.

She looks down at her drink, fiddling with the toothpick speared through the olive. “It’s quite the exciting life you lead.”

He laughs lightly and nods. “Could say the same about you.”

“Oh, I just have a habit of being in the wrong places at the right time.” She lifts the olive to her mouth and holds it between her teeth as she pulls the toothpick free.

John watches as she sucks the olive into her mouth and then takes a long drink of his scotch. “Jeopardy friendly,” he mutters.

She raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s the only life I know how to live anymore.”

There’s that melancholy look again and she frowns a little, wondering if it will ever be possible to understand this man. “I heard you were leaving.”

John takes another sip of his drink and then sighs. “Thinking about it. Made a new friend. Says he needs my help with something.”

She lifts her glass and gives him a sidelong look.

“That Captain Jack is _very_ convincing,” he explains and her laugh is like music in his ears.

They are silent for a time and she thinks about the past few weeks, how she got in over her head and how John Smith rescued her, how they saved the day and maybe the whole city. “No wonder you never stay still.”

Her lips are ever so slightly curved but her eyes are serious, and he softens a bit at the underlying hint of sadness in her voice. “Not a bad life.”

Her wide smile matches his as she says, “Better with two.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

She stands by the open taxi door, knowing he’s watching her.

“Rose,” he pleads. “I’m sorry, love, just –”

She shakes her head and sighs. “You don’t have to act with me. You don’t have to say anything, and you don’t have to do anything. Not a thing.”

He takes a step towards her and she finally looks back over her shoulder, a coy smile spread across her face. “Oh, maybe just whistle. You know how to whistle, don’t you, _Doctor?_ ”

John raises an eyebrow at the way she uses his old name.

Moving away from the taxi, she walks towards him and runs her fingertips along his jaw, brushing her thumb over his lip just that night in his office when she was scared and wet and brave. “You just put your lips together and… blow.”

He watches the sway of her hips all the way to the door of the taxi, staring after it until the taillights fade into the night.

 _Still jeopardy friendly,_ he thinks, _every inch of her_.


End file.
